


Dolly

by TheAwfulDodger



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Art, Brock Rumlow POV, Bucky Barnes Gets a Hug, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon-Typical Violence, Creepy Brock Rumlow, Creepypasta, Dolls, Gen, Goat Herder Bucky Barnes, HYDRA Trash Party adjacent, Halloween, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mystery, Porcelain Doll - Freeform, Wakanda (Marvel), Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, haunted objects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:02:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27295372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAwfulDodger/pseuds/TheAwfulDodger
Summary: The Asset takes a little souvenir from its latest mission. Brock Rumlow does not approve.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 14
Kudos: 37





	1. 4.31 a.m, October 31st, 2013

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JuZu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuZu/gifts).



> Happy Halloween everybody!
> 
> I was bitten by this plotbunny while I was walking the dog late at night, the night before Halloween. When I came home, I sat down at my computer and wordvomited out this fic. I wanted to post it on time for Halloween, so I stayed up late, posted the rough version straight away and cleaned it up in the morning. I hope you all have a wonderfully spooky Halloween, please stay safe!
> 
> To JuZu, my Stevie, who loves all things spooky. <3

_04.31, October 31st, 2013_

Commander Rumlow’s com crackled to life, informing him that there was A Situation with the Asset in post-mission cleanup.

“Looks like that beer will have to wait, boys, the Soldier apparantly has its panties in a twist.” he announced, closing the door to the van instead of getting into the passenger seat. Rollins sighed and threw his cigarette to the pavement, grinding it out beneath the heel of his boot as he stuck the keys back into his pocket. Westfahl had the audacity to look disappointed.

“Aw man, I was looking forward to trick or treating with my nieces, I have the most awesome Batman costume this year, and Leila was going to be Batgirl and little Amber…” Westfahl babbled, sliding out from the back of the van and following the Commander and Rollins back into the bank building, unaware that the other two men weren’t listening to a word he was saying.

***********************************************

The scene that greeted Rumlow when they had made their way back into the vault wasn’t as bloody as he expected it to be. The STRIKE team members that had stayed behind to oversee the post-mission procedures looked slightly uneasy, but were still at their posts along the wall of the vault. The fat bald tech with the bowtie was red in the face, while the mousy-looking thin one was fidgeting nervously. Rumlow couldn’t remember their names and didn’t particularly care.

The Soldier itself was in the Chair, barefoot and unrestrained, stripped down to its tacpants, but the crease in its brow and the clenched hands told Rumlow all was in fact very much Not Well. Something was brewing and it was A Situation indeed.

“What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?” Rumlow inquired, deceptively gentle as he approached the Chair, eyes fixed firmly on the Asset. The way the Asset's blue eyes laser-focussed on him as soon as he was in the room was unsettling every time, but he made sure not to show it. Jack had his six, he was sure of that, and he imagined handling the Asset was a bit like handling a big cat; Show no fear.

The fat, balding tech got even redder in the face, handgestures clearly signalling frustration as he motioned at the Soldier.

“It got something in its hand and won’t give it up!” Fatty stated, and Rumlow raised an eyebrow at the Soldier while Mousy just wrung his hands. These guys were useless, and he wondered how long their heads would stay attached to their shoulders, if they couldn’t even manage to get the Asset to give up something it had supposedly pilfered.

“Is that so?” Rumlow questioned, eyes fixed on the Asset, knowing he would not get a verbal answer. At least it had the decency to lower its fucking eyes, which was a clear indication that yes, it had indeed pilfered something it wasn’t supposed to have.

“Well then, give it here, Soldier.” Rumlow ordered, holding his hand out. The crease in the Asset’s brow deepened, the right fist tightening around the contraband, jaw squaring defiantly for a second. It was rare to see anything but instant obedience these days, rare but not unexpected. Rumlow knew it was best to wait these moments out, as they usually resolved themselves almost as soon as they started. Knowledge and instincts like this were why he was still the Asset’s handler after all, had been for years instead of rotting in an unmarked grave somewhere.

This time it was no different. The Soldier swallowed as its fist uncurled a little, before moving its hand over to Rumlow’s outstretched one and dropping something small in it. A chastised look came over the Soldier as it let go of the item, hint of pink spreading over its cheeks. Rumlow looked down at the item that had been dropped in his hand.

It was a little porcelain baby doll, barely 2 inches in length. The thing was old, kinda creepy, and dressed in a white-ish linen dress with blue embroidery. Huh.

“Where the fuck did you get this, Soldier?” Rumlow asked, studying the little dolly. The Asset looked uncomfortable, not meeting Rumlow’s eyes and rubbing his thumb and fingers together as if it was still feeling the doll’s little linen dress.

“...the little house.”

“The little house.” Rumlow repeated, incredulous. "What 'little house'."

"The little house in the little girl's room." the Asset confessed, eyes downcast. It knew it was in the wrong.

“You thought it was a good idea to take a little souvenir from tonight’s mission?” He questioned, icy undercurrent in his voice. “Tell me, Soldier, was it stated in the mission brief that you were to leave the target's bedroom, sneak into the girl's bedroom and take an item from the premises?”

The Soldier looked like it hoped it would disappear into the ground, Chair and all. “No Sir.” it stated, as if it was painful.

“So we agree that taking anything was noncompliant? Good. In that case, I won’t have to spell out why you’re being punished.” the Commander barked. The little embarrased flush that had been on the Soldier’s face vanished, and it squared its jaw again as Rumlow pulled out his stun baton. The mismatched hands clenched around the armrests of the Chair. The Asset intentionally pushed its head back against the headrest before the shocks would make its muscles contract and smash its head into the metal headrest.

The stunbaton whined as it powered up, electricity crackling as Rumlow pushed it against the metal shoulder, creating a feedbackloop in the Asset’s body. It went rigid and stopped breathing as the electricity made it spasm unvoluntarily. Rumlow drew back after a couple of seconds before pressing the baton to the Soldier’s crotch and firing it again. A whine slipped from the Asset at the second shock, its legs trembling as it fought to stay passive.

“I will not have you dragging in garbage. Next time, I’m shoving the baton up your ass!” Rumlow growled as he pulled back the stunbaton. The Asset knew better than to apologize, staying silent and looking adequately chastised. Rumlow was done with this shit, he wanted his beer.

“As you were, gentlemen! Hose it down, wipe it and put it in its containment cell. I better not get commed for this sort of shit again.” Rumlow snapped at the two techs, as he holstered the baton again and turned around. He gave Rollins an epic eyeroll as he dumped the creepy doll in the sharps-container near the door.

“I swear there’s nothing left up there but swiss cheese, fucking dumbass…” he muttered, Rollins and Westfahl following him back into the hallway.


	2. 9.14 p.m, October 31st, 2013.

_21.14, October 31st, 2013._

The trick-or-treaters could kiss Brock’s ass, he was pretending he wasn’t home. He’d closed the curtains, turned off the porch light and settled down with a beer and a stack of horror dvd’s he’d pressured Mercer into lending him. He had just decided on Night of the Living Dead when his cellphone rang. Not his cellphone, his _cellphone_. The cellphone that wasn’t supposed to ring unless something was Very Wrong. Perhaps the universe had something against him having a beer on Halloween.

He fished the damn thing from between the couch cushions and picked up.

"Rumlow."

The voice on the other side sounded a little unsure and panicky, probably a junior agent.

"Commander Rumlow Sir, sorry to bother you but I think we have a code 404..." the agent informed him. Well, there went his plans for the evening.

"On my way." Brock answered, not waiting for the person on the other side of the line to reply but simply cutting off. He groaned, setting his beer on the coffee table, flinging the dvd in the general direction of the couch as he made his way to the hall to grab his coat and carkeys.

****************************************

The streets were full of costumed kids and teens, which made the short drive over to the bank building take longer than Rumlow’s cool could handle. He completed the security check-ins and drove straight into the underground garage, double parking but not giving a fuck.

The little office that monitored the building, but mostly the Asset’s holding cell, wasn’t far from the entrance, and Rumlow may have wrenched open the door with a little too much force. The junior agent inside did a little jump. Rumlow couldn’t quite remember his name, he was recruited from SHIELD’s ranks not too long ago. Johnson, Jannson, Jonesson, Jansen… something like that. Who cared anyway.

“Now what?!” Rumlow barked, checking the various monitors for any sign of A Situation. Jannson did an awkward little salute, half rising from his seat.

“Commander Rumlow, Sir, the Asset keeps speaking to someone, I wasn’t sure if this constitutes as a code 404 but better safe than sorry I guessed… Sir.” he offered, gesturing at one of yhe monitors that showed the Asset’s containment cell.

Even though the interior of the room was completely devoid of light, the infrared camera showed a perfect picture of the concrete, box-like room, with the Asset lying down on the metal shelf like cot that protruded from the wall. It was stark naked, laying on its back with the metal arm curled under its head and the flesh arm over its stomach. Sure enough, its mouth was moving, but the sound coming from the speakers in the surveillance room was faint.

“Turn that up.” Rumlow commanded, and Jonesson tapped something on the keyboard. The Soldier’s voice came from the speakers, a whisper as it obviously tried to be so quiet that it would not be detected. It did not want caught, the sneaky fucker…

“….don’t be afraid, it’s just the dark… there’s no such things as monsters… you can always sleep in my bed…” the Asset whispered, barely audible, and Rumlow felt his already crappy mood turn even more sour.

“Zoom in on its hand.” Rumlow ordered. Jansen tapped some keys again and zoomed in on the metal hand, half-covered by the Asset’s hair.

“The other one, you idiot!” Brock snapped, resisting the urge to smack Johnson in the back of the head. The junior agent stammered an apology and switched the camera’s focus to the Soldier’s flesh hand, curled loosely on its stomach. It looked like it was holding on to something small... whispering to it in the dark.

“Goddamned shitfuck!”

Brock was out of the office and into the elevator in a few big strides, down at the level of the Vault in under 30 seconds. He forcefully thumbed in his security code, slammed his index finger down on the fingerprint scanner, and glared the retinal scanner into submission. The lights overhead came on inside the cell as soon as the door swung open. He caught the Asset in the process of sneaking something in the crevice between the wall and the cot.

“YOU BETTER HAND THAT OVER IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU, SOLDIER!” Rumlow barked as he strode into the little cell. The light was harsh, illuminating the entire cell. The Asset looked nervous and unsure, but dug the whatever-it-was out from the little hiding place. It bowed its head as it lowered itself off the cot and onto the concrete floor, ending up on its knees in front of the Commander. It did not dare to look up as it offered up it’s little prize, the fist opening to reveal the little porcelain doll.

Letting out a string of curses, Rumlow snatched the contraband from the upturned palm of the Soldier’s hand. He stuffed the damn thing into his pocket before he kicked the Asset in the balls as hard as he could, the toe of his combat boot connecting with the Soldier’s naked genitals with a sickening sound. The Asset made a high-pitched, winded noise but stayed on its knees as Rumlow turned on his heel. Johnson was at the door, looking in with morbid fascination.

“We’re not done with this, Soldier, we’ll _discuss_ your disobedience tomorrow!” Rumlow bit over his shoulder as he left the cell, Jannsonns closing the heavy metal door behind him.

They rode the elevator back to the security level in silence, Rumlow still fuming. Tech must have given the Asset the chance to steal the creepy fucking doll out of the sharps container at some point. Not only stealing it, but hiding it somewhere until it was alone in it’s containment cell. And that meant not only that Tech wasn’t paying attention, that also meant that STRIKE had been sleeping on the job. And that was un-fucking-excusable.

“Fill out an incident report, Janssen. On my desk by tomorrow morning, understood?” Rumlow ordered, as they stepped into the security office. He lobbed the creepy little dolly into the waste paper basket with a look of disgust.

“…it’s Jonasson, Sir…” the Junior agent supplied hesitantly, making Rumlow roll his eyes on the way out. Fucking wise-ass newbie agents.


	3. 05.25 a.m., November 2nd, 2013.

_05.25, November 2nd, 2013._

It wasn’t defrosting the Asset that was the problem, it was the process of freezing it. The cryogenic storage unit needed a massive surge of power to flash-freeze the Asset in a span of seconds, preventing the formation of ice crystals in its blood or some such shit. Brock wasn’t sure. There was a section in the operating manual about the technical and biological reasoning behind it, and Brock had read it, but the science-bits of it hadn’t stuck. Wasn’t needed for daily operation of the Asset, wasn’t remembered, simple as that.

The practical effect that DID concern Rumlow was that the Asset was usually deployed for two or even three back-to-back missions before he went back on ice for a period of time. They had just come back from mission number two and this time, Rumlow would be watching the post-mission maintenance and pre-cryo prep like a hawk.

He had not figured out how the Asset had gotten hold of the little porcelain doll again. He had questioned Fat Baldy and Mousy Nerd, but both had vehemently denied any involvement. His own STRIKE team members swore they’d done their jobs too, and Brock hadn’t had time yet to review the security footage. It was a big fucking mystery and he was quite sure someone was lying.

It wouldn’t happen again though, not on his watch. He had not been promoted to Handler because he was one to pussyfoot around, and he wanted to keep his good standing with Secretary Pierce, thank you very much.

The Asset was in the Chair, all loose limbs and eyelids half closed, doped up on the pre-cryo cocktail that was flowing into the IV-line in its right hand. It had been hosed down, its stomach and bowels had been emptied and it had been wiped. The drugs flowing into its veins now were the last step in the cryo preparation process.

Fat Baldy drew the IV-needle out matter-of-factly after checking the bag was empty. Mousy Nerd checked the Asset’s heartrate and temperature (both steadily dropping) one last time. The Asset’s head lolled on its neck a little as they ordered it to its feet, Fat Baldy gripping the right arm, guiding it out of the Chair and into the direction of the cryotube.

Rumlow observed as Mousy Nerd pulled up the lever that opened the cryogenic storage unit’s door, the seal breaking with a clank and a hiss. Something white at the bottom caught his eye, but Fat Baldy blocked his view as he guided the Asset over.

“Hold on, what’s that.” Rumlow ordered, making both Mousy and Fatty look at him. The Asset stumbled a little as Fatty stopped, right in front of the tube.

Rumlow pushed off from the wall he’d been leaning against and made his way over in a few big strides. He grabbed the metal elbow and gave a little tug, moving the Asset out of his way and giving him and unobstructed view of the cryotube’s interior.

Out of the corner of his eye, Brock could see the Asset following his own line of sight, into the cryotube and down down down…

…to the little porcelain babydoll in the little white linen dress with blue embroidery…

Rumlow could feel the metal arm shift in his grip as the Asset made a move to bend down to scoop up the little dolly, so he tightened his grip and yanked up to prevent the Soldier from toppling over and smashing its head open. Fat Baldy did the same on the right side, but the Soldier turned its doped-up puppy eyes to Brock when it straightened up.

“..ekkah..” it breathed, and the look in those blue eyes was so full of sorrow, but Rumlow didn’t feel an ounce of pity. All he could feel was rage, someone on his team was fucking with him via the Soldier, mocking him and undermining his authority. And that had the potential to be lethal around an unpredictable Weapon like the Asset.

“Wipe it!” Rumlow barked at Fatty, while already shoving the Asset back towards the Chair. Mousy Nerd stammered something about protocols, but wisely shut up when Brock turned his furious gaze to him. “I don’t care what protocol says, WIPE IT! NOW!”

The Asset was a little unsteady on its feet as Brock pushed him backwards and back into the chair, docily going where the Commander wanted it to. Mousy Nerd’s hands flew over the keyboard and the Chair’s metal restraints came down around the Asset's unresisting limbs. Fat Baldy pushed the mouthguard into the Asset’s slack mouth as Rumlow fished the little doll from the open cryotube. He got right into the Asset’s face and held it up.

“This, you shitrag, this isn’t yours.” The Soldier’s eyes seemed to have trouble focusing, and Rumlow growled in frustration. “You don’t get to have things. HYDRA owns you, you _ARE_ property. I don’t care who gave this to you, but the next time someone tries to give you something, you refuse. You refuse and REPORT IT TO ME.”

With that, he threw the little dolly on the floor, the tiny little porcelain head cracking on the concrete. The Asset’s eyes, unfocussed as they were, followed it and widened as the Commander stomped his boot down onto the little figure. Rumlow ground the little doll under his boot, shattering the little porcelain arms and head to nothing but splinters.

“Do it.” he barked at the technicians, and the halo came to life with a deep hum.

*******************************

Rumlow stepped in to his little office at the SHIELD headquarters in the Triskellion building half an hour after leaving the Vault. He had another 404-incident report to file, which was a pain in the ass, and a STRIKE mission report to write up. The extra work that came from his “extracurricular activities” outside his role as SHIELD’s STRIKE team Alpha Commander usually didn’t take up this much time, and overtime didn’t net him any extra pay from SHIELD or HYDRA, which sucked. But hey, he had coffee, so it could be worse.

It wasn’t hard to hide in plain sight, the organisation had the system down to a T after all those decades. The incident reports were all hardcopy, filed at the Vault, and the wording was coded in such a way that even if the hardcopy fell into wrong hands, it would all seem like regular old SHIELD documentation.

Rumlow put his coffee down on his desk, flipped on his computer and pulled open the bottom drawer to grab an empty form from the special folder in the back. As he kept an eye on the booting computer, his fingers brushed against something soft in the back of the drawer. His fingers closed around it almost automatically and he heard the blood pounding in his ears, vision going tunnel like as he pulled it up in what seemed to be slow motion…

…a creepy…

…little…

…porcelain…

…dolly…

…in a white…

…linen dress…


	4. Around noon, October 31rd, 2016.

_Around noon, October 31rd, 2016._

The sun has reached its highest point, beating down on the arid bit of pasture that Bucky’s goats graze on when he’s not out on the plains with them. The hut he calls home when the city feels like too much is cool by comparison, but it’s still warm. It’s funny, having temperatures that feel like summer on Halloween. Not that they celebrate Halloween in Wakanda, but he and Steve can have their own little celebration, Bucky muses.

The light but familiar footsteps announce Steve’s arrival, he can see Steve’s shadow approaching in the doorway, so it’s no surprise when Steve sticks his head inside with a little “Booh!”. Bucky rolls his eyes but can’t help laughing.

“Hey stranger!” Bucky says with a laugh, getting up from his perch on one of the roughly hewn log stools to kiss Steve. They haven’t seen each other in almost three weeks, and Steve smells like home. “Hmm, beard. Not sure about the beard yet.” Bucky hums as they break apart.

“You’re one to talk!” Steve huffs, bringing a hand up to tug at Bucky’s own scruffy beard. Bucky laughs and swats the offending hand away, before curling up against Steve’s chest, arm around Steve’s waist, content just to breathe him in for a while.

“…hi.” Steve rumbles, arms coming up around Bucky’s frame. He’s lost weight again, Steve notices, the thin traditional Wakandan shift that Bucky’s wearing not doing much to conceal it. But Steve doesn’t mention it, not willing to break the peaceful moment.

They stand like that for a couple of minutes, before Bucky pulls away, cheeks gone pink. Suddenly, he seems incapable of meeting Steve’s eyes, gesturing at the little hut’s interior.

“Come in, pull up a uhm, log stool…” For a moment, Steve thinks Bucky looks kind of lost, and it’s the saddest thing he’s seen, but its over in a flash as Bucky starts pouring him a cup of water from a clay pitcher. Its all very rustic and such a far cry from the city boy Bucky used to be in the forties, a little disconcerting really.

“I brought you something. I kept forgetting about it.” Steve sits down on one of the log stools and rummages through his pack. Bucky comes over, the pitcher of water abandoned as his interest is piqued. Steve's hand touches the thing at the bottom of his pack, under his clean underwear and he pulls it out.

  
“I think it’s the same one Becca had when she was a kid. Remember she had that big dollhouse your uncle Marcus built?”

Steve holds up a little antique baby doll, barely two inches in size. It’s dressed in a little white linen dress with blue embroidery. He’s smiling at the memory, and it takes him a second to realize that Bucky’s eyes have gone glassy, and he’s unnaturally still. All his muscles seem to have frozen in place, it seems he’s not even breathing.

“Buck?”

Steve lowers the little doll out of sight, putting it on the log beside him. He gets to his feet, hesitant to touch Bucky as it may trigger a violent outburst.

“Bucky?” he tries again, soft and gently, and this time Bucky blinks. Once, twice, takes a breath and meets Steve’s eyes.

“Where did you find that?” he asks, voice a monotone.

“Uhm” Steve scratches the back of his head. He can't exactly tell Bucky that Rumlow had given it to him as a weird kind of joke, not knowing that Steve would be delighted with the doll and would hang on to it for sentimental reasons. Telling Bucky where the doll came from would certainly trigger a panic attack and he'd probably have to throw out the little doll. It takes Steve a second to work out what to say, deciding to tell the truth but keeping it vague enough to hopefully stay on the safe side.

“Someone on STRIKE gave it to me a few years ago. Said it was from the forties and therefore it reminded him of me. I hung on to it because Becca had the same one…” his voice peters out as he sees the colour drain from Bucky’s face.

Oh so slowly, Bucky steps around Steve and picks the doll up off the log. His hand closes around it and he carefully tucks it into the plaid wrap he’s wearing. He seems to be miles away, voice so small a whisper even Steve’s Supersoldier hearing can barely pick it up.

“…thank you…”

**Author's Note:**

> The doll picture was edited by D4tD, thank you! 
> 
> The original dolly source material was taken from https://www.worthpoint.com/worthopedia/vintage-miniature-1940-ethel-strong-1918159263?fbclid=IwAR2vlEuLUTgiPBuR6ZIntIY05LOM4ZVLMY7gDQkPWWcEIuC15CWGrKBWFP0.


End file.
